By Varlam Shalamov
Envy, like all our feelings, had been
dulled and weakened by hunger. We lacked the strength to experience emotions,
to seek easier work, to walk, to ask, to beg. ...We envied only our
acquaintances, the ones who had been lucky enough to get office work, a job in
the hospital or the stables-wherever there was none of the long physical labor
glorified as heroic and noble in signs above all the camp gates. In a word, we
envied only Shestakov.
External
circumstances alone were capable of jolting us out of apathy and distracting us
from slowly approaching death. It had to be an external and not an internal
force. Inside there was only an empty scorched sensation, and we were
indifferent to everything, making plans no further than the next day.
Even now I
wanted to go back to the barracks and lie down on the bunk, but instead I was
standing at the doors of the commissary. Purchases could be made only by petty
criminals and thieves who were repeated offenders. The latter were classified
as "friends of the people." There was no reason for us politicals to
be there, but we couldn't take our eyes off the loaves of bread that were brown
as chocolate. Our heads swam from the sweet heavy aroma of fresh bread that
tickled the nostrils. I stood there, not knowing when I would find the strength
within myself to return back to the barracks. I was staring at the bread when
Shestakov called to me.
I'd known
Shestakov on the "mainland," in Butyr Prison where we were cellmates.
We weren't friends, just acquaintances. Shestakov didn't work in the mine. He
was an engineer-geologist, and he was taken into the prospecting s group-in
the office. The lucky man barely said hello to his Moscow acquaintances. We
weren't offended. Everyone looked out for himself here.
"Have a
smoke," Shestakov said and he handed me a scrap of newspaper, sprinkled
some tobacco on it, and lit a match, a real match.
I lit up.
"I have to
talk to you," Shestakov said.
"To
me?"
"Yeah."
We walked
behind the barracks and sat down on the lip of I the old mine. My legs
immediately became heavy, but Shestakov kept swinging his new regulation-issue
boots that smelled slightly of fish grease. His pant legs were rolled up,
revealing checkered socks. I stared at Shestakov's feet with sincere admiration,
even delight. At least one person from our cell didn't wear foot rags. Under us
the ground shook from dull explosions; they were preparing the ground for the
night shift. Small stones fell at our feet, rustling like unobtrusive gray
birds.
"Let's
go farther," said Shestakov.
"Don't
worry, it won't kill us. Your socks will stay in one piece."
"That's not what I'm talking about," said Shestakov and swept his
index finger along the line of the horizon. "What do you think of all that?"
"It's
sure to kill us," I said. It was the last thing I wanted to think of.
"Nothing doing. I'm not
willing to die."
"So?"
"I have a
map," Shestakov said sluggishly. "I'll make up a group of workers,
take you and we'll go to Black Springs. That's fifteen kilometers from here.
I'll have a pass. And we'll make a run for the sea. Agreed?"
He recited all this as
indifferently as he did quickly.
"And when
we get to the sea? What then? Swim?"
"Who
cares. The important thing is to begin. I can't live like this any longer.
'Better to die on your feet than live on your knees.'" Shestakov
pronounced the sentence with an air of pomp. "Who said that?"
It was a familiar sentence. I
tried, but lacked the strength to remember who ha'd said those words and when.
All that smacked of books was forgotten. No one believed in books.
I rolled up my
pants and showed the breaks in the skin from scurvy.
"You'll be all right in the woods,"
said Shestakov. "Berries, vitamins. I'll lead the way. I know the
road. I have a map."
I closed my
eyes and thought. There were three roads to the sea from here—all of them five
hundred kilometers long, no less. Even Shestakov wouldn't make it, not to mention
me. Could he be taking me along as food? No, of course not. But why was he
lying? He knew all that as well as I did. And suddenly I was afraid of
Shestakov, the only one of us who was working in the field in which he'd been
trained. Who had set him up here and at what price? Everything here had to be
paid for. Either with another man's blood or another man's life.
"Okay,"
I said, opening my eyes. "But I need to eat and get my strength up."
"Great,
great. You definitely have to do that. I'll bring you some. ..canned food. We
can get it. ..."
There are a lot
of canned foods in the world-meat, fish, fruit, vegetables. ...But best of all
was condensed milk. Of course, there was no sense drinking it with hot water.
You had to eat it with a spoon, smear it on bread, or swallow it slowly, from
the can, eat it little by little, watching how the light liquid mass grew
yellow and how a small sugar star would stick to the can. …
"Tomorrow,"
I said, choking from joy. "Condensed milk."
"Fine,
fine, condensed milk." And Shestakov left.
I returned to
the barracks and closed my eyes. It was hard to think. For the first time I
could visualize the material nature of our psyche in all its palpability. It
was painful to think, but necessary.
He'd make a
group for an escape and turn everyone in. That was crystal clear. He'd pay for
his office job with our blood, with my blood. They'd either kill us there, at
Black Springs, or bring us in alive and give us an extra sentence—ten or
fifteen years. He couldn't help but know that there was no escape. But the
milk, the condensed milk ...
I fell asleep
and in my ragged hungry dreams saw Shestakov's can of condensed milk, a
monstrous can with a sky-blue label. Enormous and blue as the night sky, the
can had a thousand holes punched in it, and the milk seeped out and flowed in a
stream as broad as the Milky Way. My hands easily reached the sky and greedily
I drank the thick, sweet, starry milk.
I don't
remember what I did that day nor how I worked. I waited. I waited for the sun
to set in the west and for the horses to neigh, for they guessed the end of the
workday better than people.
The work
horn roared hoarsely, and I set out for the barracks where I found Shestakov.
He pulled two cans of condensed milk from his pockets.
I punched a
hole in each of the cans with the edge of an ax, and a thick white stream
flowed over the lid onto my hand.
"You
should punch a second hole for the air," said Shestakov.
"That's all right," I said,
licking my dirty sweet fingers.
"Let's
have a spoon," said Shestakov, turning to the laborers surrounding us.
Licked clean, ten glistening spoons were stretched out over the table. Everyone
stood and watched as I ate. No one was indelicate about it, nor was there the
slightest expectation that they might be permitted to participate. None of them
could even hope that I would share this milk with them. Such things were
unheard of, and their interest was absolutely selfless. I also knew that it was
impossible not to stare at food disappearing in another man's mouth. I sat down
so as to be comfortable and drank the milk without any bread, washing it down
from time to time with cold water. I finished both cans. The audience
disappeared—the show was over. Shestakov watched me with sympathy.
"You know," I said, carefully licking the spoon, "I changed my
mind. Go without me."
Shestakov
comprehended immediately and left without saying a word to me.
It was, of
course, a weak, worthless act of vengeance just like all my feelings. But what
else could I do? Warn the others? I didn't know them. But they needed a
warning. Shestakov managed to convince five people. They made their escape the
next week; two were killed at Black Springs and the other three stood trial a
month later. Shestakov's case was considered separately "because of
production considerations.” He was taken away, and I met him again at a
different time six months later. He wasn't given any extra sentence for the
escape attempt; the authorities played the game honestly with him even though
they could have acted quite differently.
He was working
in the prospecting group, was shaved and well fed, and his checkered socks were
in one piece. He didn't say hello to me, but there was really no reason for him
to act that way. I mean, after all, two cans of condensed milk aren't such a
big deal.
Translated from
the Russian by John Glad
The following gulag autobiographical tale
"Condensed Milk" is borrowed from Kolyma Tales. For
those unaware, Solzhenitsyn had asked Shalamov to co-author The Gulag
Archipelago, since Shalamov had lived at much crueler gulags.
Shalamov refused for already he’d grown old and beat.
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